


The Big Front

by Bdonna, molo (esteefee)



Series: Big One [2]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, zine story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-09
Updated: 2006-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:09:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bdonna/pseuds/Bdonna, https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/molo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You just gotta be looking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cover Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork by the incredibly talented [Sonja](http://www.false-colors.net/indexx.html) (Bdonna).

  



	2. The Big Front

We're having another stinking, hot, humid day, the kind where you swear you can feel every individual particle of brake dust settle against your sweaty skin to coat you like a sugar donut. A gritty, itchy feeling.

Hutch is sitting next to me in the Torino, and one hand comes up to run along his long, damp neck and lift the shirt away from his chest. It could be 110° in the shade and seeing him do that would _still_ raise my temperature a couple more unhealthy notches.

Of course, he has no idea.

See, in spite of the hanky-panky we get up to in the privacy of his or my bedroom—and, by that I mean we give a whole new _meaning_ to the words 'sheet dancing'— when we're on the Job it's like he is completely oblivious to that side of our relationship. That Nordic snowman act he pulls is more than skin deep. I think he had it grafted into his bone marrow at a European sex-clinic or something. It's like he has an on/off switch that's completely under his control. And when we're at work, he flips it to _off._

It's been driving me nutso for weeks, ever since we started down this crazy 'more than friends' road. There I'll be, sitting across from him with the desk fan cycling so that every ten seconds it wafts me a noseful of hot, sweaty _Hutch_ , and suddenly I'll have a hard-on in my pants the size of Poughkeepsie. And he'll just lift those pale eyes of his and say, "Can you hand me the Stephenson file?" cool as you please, and I _know_ he's gotta know what's going on with me, but he doesn't let on. It's always business as usual there in the squad room, and me with a tent-pole shredding my pants under the desk.

It's enough to make a guy feel a little insecure.

But it's a whole different story when we get to his place and he's got me in the bedroom. His eyes go a shade darker and kind of glow at me, and then he grabs me with those big paws and lifts me, sometimes even slamming me into him as if I'm a crash test car and he's the brick wall. Like he's desperate, or like he's never had me before, or ever will again.

And then, the next morning, soon as we step outside, he's Cool Hands Luke again. Only minus the egg-eating contest.

But last night I think I finally got my first clue.

I was sitting up against the headboard, and he was between my legs with that mouth of his swallowing my cock whole. I don't need to tell you he was making me pretty happy. Also, that position let me run my hands on his shoulders, and the smooth skin of his back, and I can never get enough of touching him, skin on skin. It's like my hands were made to fit along his shoulder blades, or between his thighs, or at that crease where his pecs meet his arm...so yeah, I was happy, and a huge part of it had to do with being buried in his mouth so deep...none of my girlfriends ever managed to get all of me that way.

'Cause I don't mean to brag, but I'm pretty big. Not as big as Hutch, of course. Jeez, I don't know what they put in that boy's feed when he was growing up, but _everything_ on him is bigger. His hands...and have you seen the wrists on that guy? And let's not forget his mouth. Oh, man. It's like a fucking cave. And when he wants to—which is whenever he sucks me—he takes it all, until his chin is pressing against my nuts. I can't explain how that feels. At least not without a neuro-induction helmet, like the one Magneto used in X-Men #113. But he made me come so hard I thought my pubic hair would fall out.

Shit. Now I've thrown wood again. And Cool Hands over there in the passenger seat is just staring out the window as if he can't even see the iron in my pants. It's like I don't exist below the waist, as far as he's concerned, when we're working.

But, anyway, last night: after my eyeballs finished spinning in their sockets, he pulled his mouth off of me and kissed me so good and long, and I told him his mouth was incredible (it is) and he said, "I always knew I could make it like that for you."

There was this kind of wistful sound to his voice, and I wondered, 'Always? Like, for how long?' I didn't say anything, but it got me to wondering how long he'd been waiting to try. To be with me.

When we fell into this thing (and we literally _fell._ I'll fill you in some other time, but let's just say that an earthquake brought us together) we never really talked about why it had happened. To tell the truth, it just felt kind of inevitable, like oily rags and a hot summer day and, WHOOSH, the garage was on fire. (Only it happened the first time in his bedroom. Which I think might be another reason he only lets loose, really lets go, when we're shut in his bedroom. Even in my room, he's a little more uptight).

The point is, it happened. And it keeps happening and, God, please don't ever let it stop. But there are times when I wonder what the hell he's _thinking_ outside of that space where he lets go. Does he think about me at all that way at other times and, if so, is he just really, really good at hiding it? And he's got to be _really_ good because, believe me, I've been looking, and with that monster he's got in his pants it'd be pretty damned obvious if he had a...stray thought.

But he doesn't, not at work, and somehow that really gets to me. Makes me feel like maybe this whole thing isn't as overwhelming to him as it is to me.

So last night we were lying there, falling asleep, my head on his chest and his one hand on my shoulder, the other one lazily stroking my ass, which he had just forced to defy the very laws of physics (turns out you really _can_ shove an elephant through the eye of a needle) and I started to think about what he'd said, and I asked him, "What did you mean, 'always'?"

His hand stopped moving, and he repeated, "'Always'?" as if he didn't know what I was talking about. But it was such an obvious stall-tactic that I didn't even reply, just waited. And finally he took a deep breath, the skin of his chest stretching under my cheek, and he said, "A long time, Starsk."

Well, that kinda threw me, because I thought maybe he'd meant weeks, or months even, but the way he said that, it sounded like a lot longer. And suddenly I wasn't so sleepy anymore.

"How long?" I asked him, trying to make it sound like the answer wasn't that important, but his body stiffened anyway, and his hand left my ass.

"As long as we've been partners," he said finally, his voice sounding tight and weird, and he dropped his other hand away from my shoulder.

I didn't move, just lay there for a little bit, thinking it through. I flashed back on a thousand scenes of our lives together, from the first moment at the Academy when he'd tripped his way into the criminology lecture and I'd helped him pick up his books, all the way through the first days of our partnership to Gunther and after, to today. All the living and dying and bleeding and crying we'd done. And the killing. All the pain we'd shown each other in those rawest moments, when it seemed like our skin had been torn off and we were nothing but bloody flesh and nerve endings. And in all that time, he'd been holding this one aching secret, through all of that. Never _once_ letting on.

In a weird sorta way it hurt me that he could be in pain and not tell me, but I was used to that, too. Hutch never does like to say when he's hurting.

Of course, I don't like to, either, so I'm one to talk.

So I was lying there, thinking it through, and I could feel the shorter breaths he was taking, because my head was still on his chest, and I could feel the rhythm of his heart, faster than it had been, and I knew he was afraid.

"You shoulda told me," was all I said, and I wrapped my arm around his waist to let him know I wasn't going anywhere, that he didn't have to lie there, his arms out to the sides, like he was afraid to hold me because he thought I might want to leave.

After a while, his palm came to rest on my jaw, his fingers on my neck, and his thumb stroked my cheek. And we fell asleep.

Terrific, we're in a traffic jam. Just what I need, to be stuck in this damned car with a rod in my pants and without even the distraction of driving to keep me from glancing over at those hands of his, and the long fingers that look like they practically have an extra joint; at least, that's what it feels like when they're inside me, stroking me so good.

And, boy, he likes to be inside me, every chance he gets, whenever we're alone. Only in the bedroom, of course. Once I tried to convince him to do it out in the kitchen and he looked at me as if I'd gone retarded. Sorry, 'special.'

So far he hasn't reciprocated, on the 'inside' front, so to speak. Part of it is him, I think, and I haven't asked him why. Part of it was me; I didn't want to 'do' it to him until I knew what it felt like, myself. Didn't want to hurt him. He's done that sorta thing before with girls, so he didn't have a problem with it, except it took a while to convince him that I wouldn't freak out about possibly losing my macho as a result of the act.

I didn't lose it. I'll tell you, anyone who can take that huge shaft of his up their ass should count themselves as muy macho, indeed. In fact, I'm pretty sure some of his girlfriends must've started growing facial hair, afterwards. I mean it _hurt_. At first. And then, by the time it started to feel really, really good, I was so glad it didn't hurt anymore that I didn't even care enough to wonder if it meant I was turning into a big homo, or always was, or whatever. This was _Hutch_ , was the important thing. And Hutch fucking me, or loving me, however he wants to, is something I pretty much can't get enough of. Which is why I'm sporting wood in my pants in 90° temperature on the 405, and why I _don't_ understand why Hutch _isn't._

Except...last night. Think about it: if he'd really been wanting me, all those years, through all those raw moments, the very good and the very bad, and never once let on at all...maybe it's just that he's had a lot more practice hiding it than I have. He's had years to develop nerves of steel in this arena.

And it's not like Hutch didn't have even earlier training in suppressing his feelings. You should meet his folks, sometime.

Or not.

I relax a little in the seat at the thought and, as if it's a sign, the traffic finally starts moving until we're zipping along at around 40 MPH, still not highway speeds but at least there's a good breeze going, lifting the hair from our sweaty faces. I turn my head and smile at Hutch, and he smiles back, and then I catch the red of taillights in front of me again and ease on the brakes. Then it registers that it's a real _quick_ slow-down, so I brake even harder, and then there's this screeching sound behind us, and I don't even have time to think _Oh, shit,_ before WHAM! The lights go out.

ooOoo

"Starsk. Buddy. Can you hear me, babe? Wake up, please," Hutch is saying, and there are these little gentle strokes on my cheek, and I think, _Big dummy, it's Saturday. Let's sleep in._ Everything is really woozy around me, as if the universe is on spin cycle in the big front-loader at the laundromat, Hutch's voice included. "Please, babe," he says again, and I make an effort to open my eyes.

Big mistake. I lean quickly to the side thinking I'm about to hurl up the two tamales and the shrimp quesadilla I had for lunch. But the urge passes. I feel Hutch's hands rub my shoulders.

"Thanks," I say, and close my eyes again. "Wha' happened?" I ask. For some reason I think I'm in bed. But then I realize I'm not. I'm sitting up. Then I remember the screech, and even before Hutch says it, I remember what happened.

"We were rear-ended," Hutch says. "I think your head whiplashed onto the steering wheel."

I reach up and, sure enough, the center of my forehead is huge, like I'm one of the Trogs in that Star Trek episode. But it doesn't hurt yet, feels kinda cold, actually. Hutch pulls my hand away, and then I hear the sound of sirens.

"Cavalry," Hutch says with relief in his voice. His hand is on my cheek again, stroking me, even though I'm already conscious. I turn my head and look at him blurrily.

"You okay?" I think to ask.

Hutch gives a painful laugh, "I'm fine. Fine, Starsk." Then he laughs again, and leans forward and there, right _there_ , in the front seat of the Torino, in front of God, and the tarmac, and who knows _what_ emergency crew, he kisses me dead on the lips.

I'm a little too stunned to respond and, anyway, I have the excuse of a head trauma. But when he pulls back I crack open my jaw and say, as stiffly as I can, "Honestly, you think that's appropriate? We're on the _Job_ , here, Hutchinson."

For a split second he looks completely dorky, utterly confused and maybe a little hurt, and then he gets that I'm teasing, and he growls, "Oh, yeah. That hits hard coming from a guy who's been sporting a huge boner all day long."

So he _did_ notice.

And suddenly, it's all good. I mean this achy feeling in my chest completely disappears as if it were never there. In fact, it starts to get pretty warm and glowy. It's all just been a big front of his. So big it even fooled _me_.

My head is starting to hurt now, so I rest it back and close my eyes, but all I'm thinking is, just you _wait_ , Hutchinson. I'm onto you, now. And as soon as my head is better and I get you alone...I'm gonna _show_ you a rod.

And you'd better be ready for it.

ooOoo

It's dark outside, and finally cool, and the sheets are a little damp from our showers, and our sweat. We've been rolling around for an hour, and he can't seem to stop kissing me, but I'm okay with that. He's being real gentle, too, worried about my head, and I'm okay with that as well, because it should soften him up for my plans.

I tell him I want to fuck him.

Not in so many words, of course, because it's not like we talk much when we're screwing, except for the occasional, 'get the lube' and 'oh my GOD.' But I get him on his back, his knees up, and I'm sucking him and have a finger up his ass and he's really loving it, making these sounds that always just drive me crazy, maybe because the only time I get to hear him like that is when we're like _this_ with each other.  


And he comes in my mouth, a tide of it, and I swallow (not my favorite part) and afterward, I keep my finger in his ass, still moving it a little, real slow, and I wait for him to pick up on it.

He looks down at me with his face red and his baby blues all dazed, and when his eyes lock on mine I choose that moment to put another finger in him. Slowly.

He gets it right away, of course. He takes a funny breath and his eyes widen just a little, and then he closes them and lays his head back. And he kinda just waits.

I don't know why this is so hard for him. It's not the macho thing, I know. He never played those types of games with me, not even in the Academy back when I thought out-toughing everyone was what being a man was all about. We compete about a lot of things, but it's never been about that. And when we first fell into the sack (I can hardly wait for the next earthquake, I swear) he was the one who took the lead in sucking my cock, in having me touch his ass. So it's not that. It's something else.

I take my time getting him ready, really stretching him slow and easy, hoping it won't hurt him as much as it did me, the first time, before I learned to relax. When I'm done I look down, really look at his asshole. It's all glistening and pink and gaping a little, waiting for me. It gives me the shivers.

Hutch starts to turn over onto his belly, but I stop him with my hand.

"Not like that. I want you on your back."

His eyes open and he looks like he wants to protest, but I just stare him down until he closes his eyes again.

I get him all positioned, and Hutch is cooperating, hoisting his hips up so I can get under them, and putting his legs over my shoulders. I get myself ready, still looking down at his face. It's closed up like a clam, and I can't get a read on him at all, but that's okay. I slide my cock up to him, and then I say:

"Open your eyes, Hutch."

I know he doesn't want to. But he opens them, and when they settle on mine, I push into him.

I can't breathe. Hutch's mouth opens and he gasps in. His eyes are still locked on mine as I push a little deeper before his ass closes down on me, resisting.

I wait. I can see he wants to close his eyes again, but mine won't let him. I want him to see my face as I take him, all the way. I feel like I'm pure energy at this point, lasering out of my eyeballs and into his. As soon as his ass eases up I'm there, pushing deeper, and finally Hutch makes a sound. A brand-new one. Like someone has just stabbed him in the heart.

And then I see it, that half-slitted roll of the blues going back in his head, and I know just how he feels; I felt the same the first time I realized how goddamn good it was, to have him inside me. That incredible pleasure of his cock sliding deep.

I start moving, now, fucking him slow, arching my back to hit him sweet, and Hutch is moaning like he can't believe it, and his hands come up to grip my forearms, as if to keep me there.

I don't know how long I am there, in that golden space where there's nothing but Hutch and pleasure and pressure and a need to go higher, deeper, but finally I'm getting too close to the sky, breathing too hard in the thin air. I reach down and grab his cock; his pre-cum spills down onto my hand and he groans real low.

"Please." He says it so quiet I'm not sure I heard it, and I look down again into his eyes and he says, again, "Please," and it gives me a small chill, it sounds so much like he did when he was going cold-turkey on the H and was begging me for a pop. But this is a good pop I'm giving him, it can only make him stronger. So I jerk his cock, stroking it fast, and then he shouts this rough shout that must've torn his throat out, it was so hoarse, and he comes all over my hand, his ass squeezing my cock like a drowning man grabs a lifeline.

It's way, way too much, and I end up going over, too. I throw my head back and yell his name and come hard inside him, my balls clenching so tight I think my nuts are going to rupture. It seems to go on forever, this white-hot, brain-destroying pleasure. But finally, it's over.

I look down at Hutch again, and he's looking up at me like he can't believe I'm still there. But considering the chokehold he still has on one of my forearms, he shouldn't be surprised. I sit back, pulling my arms away, and they ache from the pressure. I'm going to have bruises there, tomorrow.

But I don't care. I don't care about much of anything, at this point, but the look that's still in Hutch's blue eyes. And the fact that I need, desperately, to kiss him, right this second. I ease out of him so I can lie beside him and do just that.

He lets me kiss him, but responds only sluggishly, either being too wiped or too confused. Probably a little bit of both. I know what _that's_ like, too. So I treat him real gentle, petting him a little and planting small kisses on him. We don't get too mushy romantic after we fuck, generally. Usually we just fall right to sleep. But I'm really needing it right now, after what I felt, and he must be, too, because suddenly he pulls me into this big hug, a real bone-crusher, and it feels so good I don't even care that my ribs, which were still sore from the strain of the accident earlier, are complaining in a loud voice, as Hutch just _squeezes_ me.

Then he lets go and says, "Sorry," real rough.

"S'okay, s'okay," I say, and start petting him again, and I think I'm still moving my lips against his skin when I fall asleep.

ooOoo

Things got different, after that. Not in any real obvious way, because we could never get away with it and still keep our jobs. But Hutch and me, we never need to be real obvious about stuff. In fact, it's saved our lives more than once that we can say a lot with just a crinkle of an eyelid or a twitch of the cheek.

Thing is: now he's playing along.

Like, he'll curl his lip at me and drop his eyes to the desk and I'll know _he_ knows I've got wood on again (Christ it's like I'm in Junior High). Or I'll touch my lip once with my fingertip and he knows I've caught him thinking about kissing me. And I feel a lot better now knowing it's _here,_ in the rest of our lives, and not just in one or two rooms. It's everywhere, including the Torino, when he strokes the button on the hand-mike with that big middle finger; or even in Dobey's office, when I steal Hutch's coffee and put my lips right where his had just been.

It's like in poker: it doesn't have to be big, to be a tell.

You just have to be lookin'.

 _Finis_.

  


July 2005  
San Francisco, CA


End file.
